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I make a show of filling my mouth and pass the bottle on. Then I raise my arm to swipe my hand across my mouth.
Before I can finish the gesture, the cart bumps on a rut. A dollop of the liquid jolts down my throat.
I spit the rest down my sleeve, silently cursing the lumps in the dirt. At least I didn’t swallow a full portion.
As the cart jostles on, a faint fizzing develops beneath my thoughts. It’s hard to judge the full effect when I’m just sitting here, but my gut clenches with uneasiness.
I have no idea how long the cart ride lasts. We candidates sit in tense silence. The shrouded figures among us intone in the thick, muddled syllables of the arcane dialect I heard Wendos using, so quietly I’m not sure I’d understand them even if I’d learned the language.
The cart jerks to a halt. Our escorts draw back the canvas to reveal a wide clearing surrounded by sparse forest on all sides.
Nothing I can see stands out as a potential landmark to identify this spot. No doubt that’s by design.
There’s a big dark heap off at the other end of the clearing, only a jumble of lumps in the darkness. The conspirators don’t make any move toward it, directing us in front of the cart before leading the horses farther to the side.
When I walk, my mind seems to list as if I’m a boat on a wavy sea. I swallow thickly, the sour aftertaste of the drugged liquid lingering in my mouth.
If I’m feeling out of sorts, how badly will it have affected those who swallowed the entire mouthful?
Then one more shrouded figure steps into the clearing across from us, leading a man who has his hands bound behind his back and a golden crown on his drooping head.
At the first glimpse, my heart lurches. The crowned man has the same dark hair and strapping build as King Konram.
Julita gasps.They couldn’t really have—
No, they couldn’t. She cuts herself off when he raises his head, and we both see a face similar but not the same as the king’s. The nose is large, but more bulbous than hawkish; the eyes are squintier and wider set.
Just a stand-in. But the implications are clear.
They become even more so when the shrouded man leading him lifts his voice.
“This king hasn’t proven himself worthy of ruling over us,” he says, projecting his words out into the stillness of the night. “All those who wish to lead must be properly tested. Rise to the challenge and make him confirm his might.”
I’ve spent a significant part of the past few days observing Ster. Torstem whenever I could, wanting to make sure I could recognize him if I encountered him in this guise again. It only takes a couple of sentences before I’m sure this is the law professor’s authoritative tone, even with the magical warbling disguising it. His cadence sounds just like it does when he’s at his lectern.
Before I have a chance to wonder how we’re going to “rise to the challenge,” one of the other scourge sorcerers presses a knife into my hand. I stare down at it, my fingers instinctively curling around the hilt.
It’s a plain one, but I can tell it’s sharp from the way the faint moonlight hits the blade. My stomach flips over.
The woman from the city glances around, clutching the knife she was handed. “What are we supposed to do?”
Torstem shoves the false king toward us. “Deal a blow. Cut him deep. If the gods are with him, he’ll endure.”
Great God help us,Julita mumbles.
My magic flickers in my chest, but aimlessly. I’m braced for danger, but my riven power can’t tell where the threat is.
In this moment, technically the threat is me.
I adjust my grip on the knife, willing down my queasiness.
I can handle this. I know my way around a blade.
I can make a strike look fierce while avoiding any vital organs or major blood vessels. A superficial wound.
The drug gives me even more of an excuse. They can’t expect me to aim properly when my balance is off kilter, can they?
The shrouded figures around us raise their voices. “Test him! Test the king! Find out what he’s worth.”
